


Counting Nargles

by BriarLorrane



Category: Dramione - Fandom, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, My First AO3 Post
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-17
Updated: 2020-11-17
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:14:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27598076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BriarLorrane/pseuds/BriarLorrane
Summary: Life after the war has been tough on Hermione, and with the death of Fred, her relationship with Ron has been whittled down. With Harry adamant on hunting down remaining Death Eaters, and Ron following like a lost puppy, Hermione is left on her own to navigate her new life. When she bumps into a familiar face in Diagon Alley, things begin to look up.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 2
Kudos: 14





	1. Remembering

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first ever post to share a story online, let alone on AO3, so bear with me as I figure this all out. I would greatly appreciate feedback and thoughts on if I should continue. This started as a little drabble but could be fun to turn into a full story :) These chapters are also pretty short, but will change if this becomes a full blown story. I tried to break up what little I had already written. Thanks for reading xxBriar

“…73, 74, 75, 76…” She huffed abruptly, ending her counting. No matter how many nargles she numbered, sleep refused to take her. She tossed back the duvet and slid into her oversized cardigan, making sure her wand was secure in the pocket, and fell into her recurring routine.

  
Once the kettle was on, she slumped into the faded blue armchair and stared blankly into space. Though sleep evaded her, exhaustion never strayed far these days. Perhaps it was to be expected. The war had ended merely months ago, but the weight of it all had yet to dissipate. So much darkness still lingered to wade through, and until only light remained would it actually be over. Hermione didn’t know if that was possible.

  
The shrill whistling of the kettle cut through her melancholy thoughts, and she pulled the cable knit tighter around herself, trying to bring warmth back into her body. She drank her tea on autopilot, her mind too preoccupied with the past.

  
Harry had left them, and Ron had gotten torn from her side. Hermione was on her own, but she didn’t have time to worry about them. She dodged curse after curse, shouting spells in return. Familiar faces fought at her side, some losing their battles. A huge blow to the wall next to her knocked her to the ground, and she brushed the rubble off herself. She scrambled to reach her wand as a Death Eater advanced on her. She swallowed her fear and stretched her arm impossibly far, her fingers frantically grasping at her wand. The silver mask dissolved and revealed Rookwood. Hermione recognized him from the attack at the Department of Mysteries. He closed in with his wand raised—

Tap. Tap. Tap.

  
Hermione startled at the noise and grumbled at the tea stain blossoming on her chest. She rose to open the window and ushered in the ashen owl, knowing to whom it belonged. How apt to go from white to dark, such were the times. It was as if even Harry’s new owl was in mourning. Her heart squeezed at the thought of Hedwig, but she pushed it down and read the letter.

  
_“Hermione,_   
_If I know you at all, I know you will be awake to receive this letter. After you finish reading, please do try and get some sleep. For me. I’m sure it would help you feel better. As for Ron and I”—another heart squeeze at the mention of his name— “we will most likely be losing sleep for the next short while. We have been chosen to join one of the hunting parties”—she looked up from the letter and sighed, worrying her bottom lip. She knew this would happen sooner or later, what with the boys practically begging to go— “I know you have your reservations on the matter, but I feel as if it’s unfinished business that I must be a part of. As for Ron, well, I think he just needs distraction. Please don’t be angry. I’ll stay in touch as much as possible._   
_Love,_   
_H_   
_P.S. You should talk to Ginny. She’s been worried sick about you._

  
Hermione let the letter fall to the floor, her eyes glossy with unshed tears. She wasn’t sure which emotion had spurred them on, her anger, sadness, or her shame. Either way, she didn’t fight them this time, letting them fall freely while sobs racked through her body. She didn’t know at what point she fell asleep, only that eventually the pain lessened.

  
The sound of birdsong and neck pain registered as she began to stir. Too many mornings had been started in this position. Hermione stood and stretched her weary body, rubbing at her sore neck. She instinctively felt for her wand, finding it still secure at her waist. While it sometimes made her feel paranoid, Hermione had learned first-hand what could happen without your wand.

  
Although many of her mornings of late had begun in this fashion—in her threadbare armchair—today was unlike the rest. Today Hermione felt different. She needed to escape the self-made cage she had created within her home, and to rejoin the world she had helped save. Before she left, she penned a quick letter to Ginny to appease Harry, and, if she was being honest, to curb her loneliness. She hadn’t meant for it to happen, but distance had crept between herself and the Weasley family after Ron’s behavior. A small lump formed in her throat at the thought of him, but she chose to ignore it and stepped through the door.

  
Hermione relished in the absence of the constant camera flashes and the onslaught of the reporter’s inquiries. After the second week of sitting outside her house and realizing they’d get no answers, they broke camp and left. She had given the required official statements and that was all she had cared to share. Even with those that had been there, Hermione stayed tight lipped about the war and her experiences. The memories plagued her every night. She didn’t feel the need to relive them every day as well.


	2. Dove Gray

She apparated to the first place she thought of: Diagon Alley. She had no real agenda, Hermione simply wanted to enjoy being in a familiar place. Diagon Alley was filled with good memories, and Merlin knows she needed those right now. It was, however, peculiar to watch the witches and wizards go about their everyday lives, laughing and shopping, as though they had not a care in the world. And perhaps now they didn’t, Hermione surmised. If only she could share in their blissful ignorance.

She took her time meandering along the cobbled lane, enjoying the sun upon her face and the sweet scent wafting from Florean Fortescue’s Ice Cream Parlor. She smiled slightly at memories of studying with Harry while Florean supplied sundaes. If only things had stayed that simple.

Hermione sighed and continued to take in her surroundings, her spine straightening at the sight of someone unexpected. Without thinking, she scurried to the nearest shop and hid halfway behind the cornerstones, her eyes never leaving the man. Her younger Gryffindor self would be ashamed at her actions, no bravery in sight. But Hermione had learned that Houses didn’t really matter. Houses didn’t define you as a person. And Houses couldn’t save your life. During the war, Houses didn’t matter, blood did.

Her eyes followed the head of strikingly blond hair until it disappeared behind the doors of Gringotts. Only then did she begin to relax her tense muscles. Hermione supposed she shouldn’t be surprised to see him out in public. She was the one that had spoken on his behalf in trial; she was the one who had helped him evade Azkaban. He’d simply caught her off guard, she thought to herself. She hadn’t seen him since the Battle of Hogwarts, where he’d so brazenly made it clear which side he had chosen. Hermione would never forget seeing the life leaving Rookwood; how his eyes had gone cloudy and his lifeless body hitting the ground. She had followed the green bolt of light to its origin, Draco Malfoy’s wand. He had seemed almost shocked at what he’d done, and Hermione thought maybe it had been a mistake, an accident. But then he continued taking out enemies—the real enemies, and Hermione marveled at his actions. She didn’t have long, however, until she was thrust back into the chaos of spells and curses.

She shook the memory off and decided to indulge herself by visiting Flourish & Blotts. Hermione most definitely was not in need of more reading material, but the idea of running her fingers along the spines of newly bound texts was simply too strong to pass up. The bell on the door jingled at her entrance, and the shop keeper smiled her way. Hermione raised her hand and grazed her fingers along the rows of books, delighting in the simple action. It felt like forever since she’d been able to do something so menial, yet so enjoyable. After being content with wandering the shelves, she decided to buy one to mark the occasion of simplistic joys. Hermione chose one based purely on color, the lovely dove gray spine calling to her. Never one to ignore the beckoning of a book, it soon belonged to her ever-growing collection. She clutched it under her arm as she turned from the register, the bell on the door jangling merrily. Her eyes were drawn to the sound, and they slowly fell upon the man in the doorway. He looked exactly as she recalled in her memories, yet like a complete stranger all at once. He stood tall and proud, as always, but something in his hard, gray eyes had shifted. They seemed clearer, kinder almost, as if a veil had been lifted from them. His white blond hair remained the same, ever the Malfoy trademark. He simply nodded in her direction and walked to the shelves. After thawing from shock, Hermione repositioned her new book and realized just what shade of gray it was. She felt an unprecedented blush tinge her cheeks before her legs remembered to move and carried her out the door.


	3. Chapter 3

Her legs didn’t stop moving until she was secure in a booth at Florean’s Parlor with a large sundae on the table before her. The ice cream sat untouched, melting, as Hermione stared out the window. She did her best to ignore the fervent whispers that had started upon her arrival. Having no other means of distraction, as she no longer wished to look at her too familiar gray colored book, she picked up the spoon and tried to enjoy the now liquid treat that served as her lunch.

When the loud whispers picked up again, she couldn’t stand it anymore. Did no one have manners anymore? She was sick of it all. Hermione slammed the spoon down on the table, grabbing everyone’s attention, and glared. She instantly regretted it. Hermione felt the heat flood her cheeks at her outburst, which had been misdirected. Those whispers had not been about her, but rather the man she kept bumping into. Draco Malfoy had settled into a table not far from her own, and he seemed so out of place it was almost comical. Hermione tried not to stare, but it was borderline surreal. A Malfoy sitting in an ice cream parlor was clearly not commonplace.

Feeling her eyes on him, Malfoy spoke.

“Don’t worry, Granger. I’m not following you.”

She was shocked he spoke, let alone to her. She wondered if this was all merely a dream.

“I wasn’t worried,” Hermione replied, the words escaping before she’d even decided to say them.

Malfoy simply nodded, seeming unsure how to respond. Not minutes later a round, no nonsense looking man entered, and Hermione wondered what other unlikely characters might walk through that door. He situated himself across the table from Malfoy, his dark purple robes spilling onto the floor behind him, reminiscent of an oil slick.

Hermione tried not to eavesdrop, but her ears picked up their conversation nonetheless. The strict looking man was from the Ministry, and Malfoy was conducting some kind of business with him. Not wanting to hear more of their private meeting, Hermione left to find some other place of respite.

Prompted by seeing the man from the Ministry, Hermione decided to pay Harry a visit. Though she disagreed with his Death Eater hunting, she wanted to wish him well, not knowing how long he’d be gone. She entered into his office without knocking, and a large grin spread on Harry’s face at her arrival.

“’Mione, what’re you doing here? Did you get my owl?” Harry asked as he rose and pulled her into a long hug.

“Of course I did. I wanted to pop in and see you before you left,” she answered, pecking him on the cheek

Realizing he had work to do, Hermione decided to take her leave, with Harry following her into the hallway. At that precise moment, a flustered, rather flush looking woman exited the office across the hall. Ron’s office. Hermione stared after the woman, only then noting her inside out shirt. Just like that, all the heartache and confusion transformed into a simmering anger. She started toward the door.

“Hermione, wait—” Harry said, face apologetic.

She looked at him over her shoulder and froze. “You knew,” she said hotly.

“Hermione, I can explain. It doesn’t mean anything—”

“It doesn’t…it doesn’t _mean_ anything?” She spit, rounding on him. She apparated on the spot, anger and betrayal boiling in her veins.

Hermione apparated place after place, at a loss for where to go. She knew the dangers of rapid relocation, but her brain had short wired and was misfiring in all directions. Never before had she been so blindly enraged. Finally, ragged and somewhat distorted, she dropped in front of the Three Broomsticks, catching her breath. By now the sun was below the horizon, the stars beginning to peek out from the darkening sky. Hermione pulled herself to her feet and decided to do something she’d never done before. She was going to get drunk.

Three shots of Firewhiskey and four Butterbeers later, she had reached her goal. The place was dead, so she’d had the drinks all to herself. The real crowd didn’t show up for at least another hour. She continued to nurse her Butterbeer, resting her cheek on the bar. In her state of drunken stupor, time passed without her notice. When she lifted her head again, the pub was filled with unruly drinkers, the stools beside her now occupied.

Hermione’s eyes drifted around the room, taking note of certain characters even in her impaired state. It was knee jerk reaction by now, scanning for any signs of trouble. She noticed someone sitting alone at a table in the corner. Sliding off the barstool she slowly made her way to the secluded table, doing her best not to stumble like a drunken fool.

“I thought you weren’t following me,” she half shouted, pointing her finger. Embarrassment at her unchecked volume wriggled through her intoxication. She didn’t wait for a reply as she plopped down in front of him. She waved her hand in the air, signaling she wanted another round.

“I reckon you’ve had enough for one night, Granger,” Malfoy voiced, motioning to the waiter to ignore her request.

“But I never get to do this,” Hermione whined slightly, laying her head on her arms on the thick wooden table. Dizziness was starting to settle in, and she didn’t like the feeling.

“That’s rather obvious. What’s the Golden girl doing here all alone anyway?”

She ignored his question, and instead, fueled by liquid courage, voiced something she’d had on her mind since she’d first seen him that morning.

“You know, I never thanked you.”

She could see in his eyes he knew what she meant instantly. He shrugged.

“No. Don’t do that. Don’t treat it like it was nothing. It was important. I still think about it a lot.”

“So, you think about me a lot, huh,” he asked, a slight smirk tugging at his lips.

The realization that Draco Malfoy had even remotely flirted with her never even registered in her foggy brain. Hermione simply rolled her eyes and sighed at his misdirection.

“You’re welcome,” he finally answered, tone more serious.


End file.
